


Kynges Games

by La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Bad Puns, Epic Legal Fail (Ecclesiastical), Gen, Zombies, emphasizin ur wimminz, historiographical dodginess, humanist jokes, possibly educational footnotes, unintentional drunkenness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-10
Updated: 2010-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>September 1529. Why are there zombies in London? More importantly, who is creating zombies in London using a device from the fifty-first century? But when the Doctor and Martha find themselves in the middle of the biggest royal divorce case in English history, unexplained zombies are the least of their problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two of Oure Companye Beynge Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Originally conceived for the [dw_historical](http://community.livejournal.com/dw_historical) ficathon, with the prompt: _There are peculiar alien goings-on at the court of Henry VIII, but the King hasn't noticed; he's more interested in this charming young woman who's appeared from nowhere, much to Anne Boleyn's annoyance._ Bending canon a little, since the Doctor implies at the end of _The Last of the Time Lords_ that they've never met Henry VIII. The title comes from a line in Thomas More's _History of King Richard III_. There are explanatory footnotes throughout.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my wonderful beta-readers Gileonnen, angevin2, and rosamund!

**Westminster  
September 1529**

 

There were days when Thomas More really hated his job.

 

It was all well and good to have aspirations. And few were nobler than helping one's sovereign to rule to the best of his ability. Unfortunately, noble as it was, these days, it would be better described as bloody exhausting. It felt as though he hadn't seen his family in weeks.

 

And now, here he was, trudging home well after dark. Alice was going to kill him if he kept this up. Or the weariness might, he reflected bleakly. Or possibly the Archbishop of York if he somehow got it into his head that More had turned against him. Wolsey had begun to suspect people for simply looking at him oddly.

 

He supposed he couldn't blame Wolsey for worrying so. When the King's paramour--she was not yet his mistress; of that, More was certain, for she was far too clever to succumb so quickly--conceived a grudge against you, more likely than not, your days at court--and possibly on this earth--were numbered. And Wolsey had more than his share of sins for which to atone.

 

Sweet Lady Mary, he was tired. He should have accepted Wolsey's offer of a horse. Turning on his heel, he made his way back toward the gates of York Place, hoping they hadn't yet been closed for the night. And that was when the dead man walked past him.

 

At first, it wasn't clear that he was dead. He could simply have been very pale, with glassy eyes that didn't blink. Without thinking, however, More reached out and caught his arm. Even beneath several layers of brocade, there was a definite chill. The eyes seemed to be staring right through him, and the man jerked away, oblivious to the fabric tearing beneath More's fingers.

 

No pulse. No, it was quite obvious that he, Sir Thomas More, had just accosted a dead man.

 

The man--should he even call him a man? A creature? An abomination of nature, as he assuredly was? That last was a bit of a mouthful, so he elected to stick to man--continued on his way and, despite the stab of better judgement, More followed. How could he not? If dead men were walking, surely it was his duty to discover why.

 

Not unexpectedly for this time of night, the streets were deserted save for a few drunkards and stragglers. His quarry strode past them, obviously intent upon something particular, although he certainly couldn’t fathom what it was. Who was he to know what thoughts ran through the minds of dead men? At that, he could not suppress a shudder.

 

When the man finally stopped, it was near an alley. More crept closer, ducking behind an empty market stall, but even then could barely see past the entrance.

 

He could, however, hear a little. Did dead men speak? It was difficult to tell. Then, suddenly, a shape emerged from the alley, hurtling toward him. It was a shortish man who reeked of kitchen grease. "Get back! Get thee back, devil!" He held out what More could only assume was a crucifix in one trembling hand. "Christ preserve me, please, I haven't done anything wrong, I swear..."

 

But before More could intervene, he saw a silver object flash in the dead man's hand. It looked like a dagger, but when it plunged into the other's shoulder, an inexplicable blue light filled the alleyway for several seconds. Despite having been stabbed, his victim did not fall, only turned glassy, empty eyes toward More's hiding spot before following his murderer back the way he had come.

 

"Christ preserve us, indeed," More muttered, crossing himself.

 

What on earth was he to do? Nobody would believe a story about dead men walking and daggers that created them anew. It was quite literally impossible. However, aside from convincing himself that he had lost his wits, he knew precisely what he had seen.

 

The two dead men had disappeared by the time More returned to York Place. Spurring the borrowed horse faster than he might have normally done, he made his way home, resisting all the while the urge to look over his shoulder in dread.

 

Something was obviously very, very wrong.

 

***

 

"I guess it would be really stupid to ask you the person you'd most like to meet, dead or alive, wouldn't it? I mean, you'd have already done it, wouldn't you?"

 

"Oh, but that's part of the fun. You can change your mind. Your mood. You know. If you had only one chance to meet only one person, dead or alive, where's the fun in that?"

 

Martha rolled her eyes. "Easy for you to say. You've got a TARDIS. We ordinary mortals have to make do."

 

"Oh, but you're brilliant that way! Think of all the books in the world that wouldn't have been written if every human could travel in time. It's all about imagination. What's up here." The Doctor tapped his forehead. "You've met Shakespeare. How do you think he came up with everything?"

 

"I've...met Shakespeare." Martha found herself giggling. "Sorry. Still reeling from that one."

 

"Oh, me too." Strangely enough, she believed him. A grin that wide couldn't lie. Although it disappeared far too quickly for her liking, as he peered at the TARDIS' main computer screen. "Hold on."

 

"What's the matter?"  


"We've picked up a signal." He prodded a few nearby buttons and gears, nose wrinkled rather adorably. "Can't figure out what from, but it seems to be...that can't be right."

 

"Doctor, what's going on?" Martha hurried to his side and stared at the screen as if willing it to make sense. "Is something wrong?"

 

"Strange, certainly. We're getting a series of low-level signals all coming from the same place. Right in the middle of London. But none of them match. It's like someone's holding a rummage sale for alien artefacts."

 

"Torchwood?" she suggested. "I can't think of anyone else."

 

"Oh, no." He looked at her, sudden excitement alight in his eyes. "Oh, this is long before Torchwood. I know you've been there only recently, but how would you like another trip?"

 

"To where?" Before she had an answer, the TARDIS jerked itself to a stop, throwing her across the floor. "Don't they have driving schools for these things?" she muttered. "Nine hundred years old and he still can't park."

 

The Doctor stepped grandly to the door and threw it open. "After you, Ms Jones."

 

Martha stepped out and came to an immediate halt. She was surrounded by plants, half of which she couldn't recognise, forming a riot of colours and scents that would have been intoxicating if she hadn't been so worried about where they might have accidentally landed. Beyond several trees crowned with feathery, golden leaves was a gorgeous brick house, mullioned windows sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. "Er...Doctor?"

 

He emerged behind her, all smiles. "Oh, this is _marvellous_! Are those mulberry trees? I think they're mulberry trees![i] In London!"

 

"Are you sure? This doesn't look like London."

 

"Oh, you'd be surprised. We shouldn't be but ten minutes from Westminster." As if on cue, Martha could hear bells in the distance, "I thought so! Oh, I'm _good_." Charging past her, he ducked beneath a low-hanging branch and stepped into a clearing. "Excuse me? I don't suppose you could tell me where this is?"

 

Martha hurried after him just in time to see a man on the far side of the clearing jump to his feet, upsetting the book that had been sitting on his lap. "How did you...what are you doing in my garden?"

 

"Is this yours?" The Doctor's grin seemed to brighten, if that were even possible. "It's fantastic!"

 

"How on earth did you even get in?" He ran past them, giving Martha a fleeting glimpse of black velvet and a rather gaudy gold chain--well, at least by her standards. "Oh, _no_, we were just days from harvesting those--" He cut himself off, staring wide-eyed at the TARDIS.

 

The Doctor, in the meantime, looked shamefaced. "Oh, dear. I thought I'd found a clear patch. I really am sorry."

 

The man turned back, very slowly. "You came here...in _that_?"

 

"Oh, yes! Surprisingly comfortable. Bigger on the inside, I assure you."

 

"A blue wooden box," he said, as though reciting from memory, "with 'policy' written on the side.[ii] Nobody was ever able to explain that."

 

"Policy?" The Doctor blinked. "You mean Police? Although, wait a moment. How did you hear about...who are _you_?"

 

"You're in my garden. I really think you ought to tell me first." Crossing his arms, he regarded the Doctor forbiddingly. Martha guessed him to be somewhere in his late forties, though the lines on his forehead made him look older. He didn't even seem to have noticed her yet, so intent was he on the Doctor.

 

"I'm the Doctor. But you seem to know that already."

 

"I didn't know, as such," the man admitted with a shrug. "I had a hunch. But I'd thought you were a legend.[iii] A story."

 

"All stories have a grain of truth," the Doctor informed him. "Troy, King Arthur, the Babylonian Captivity; loads of people were convinced that didn't happen. Tell that to the Templars.[iv] They'll set you right. If there were any left afterward."

 

"You," the man said after a moment's bemused staring, "are utterly mad. But I heard that too. That you tended to say things that didn't make any sense."

 

"Would you mind telling me who _they_ are?" The Doctor looked unsure; not an expression Martha was used to seeing. "I was sure I hadn't been here before."

 

"Rumours, mostly. Whispers, scraps, tales from the shadows, one might call them. Men say a great many things, Doctor. Very few of those things can be pinned down." He held out his hand. "But I am being very uncivil. Thomas More, sir Doctor."

 

The Doctor's mouth dropped open. "No _way_! _The_ Thomas More!" He grabbed the offered hand and shook it so enthusiastically that its owner nearly toppled over. "But you're absolutely brilliant! Love your work. Do you know they named a planet after _Utopia_? Light years away, mind you, but they really tried to make it work. Lots of boys named Raphael.[v] It got a bit confusing."

 

"Doctor," Martha finally ventured, "you really should give the poor man his hand back."

 

Thomas More--whom Martha had heard of, but only by way of a film she'd watched with her dad years ago--was now staring at her, apparently unable to form words. Trying to fill the awkward silence, Martha held out her own hand. "I'm Martha Jones, by the way."

 

"You're..." he trailed off, shaking her hand mechanically. "Forgive me, Mistress...Jones. I'm not..."

 

"Oh. _Oh_. Right. Not from around here. Place called..." she tried to remember what they'd used the last time, "...New Fredonia. You've probably not heard of it." She was getting good at this.

 

"If you don't mind, Sir Thomas," interjected the Doctor, "might I ask you a question or two?"

 

"Certainly." He seemed relieved to be off the subject of Martha, and, if she had to be honest, so was she. It was a downside of meeting famous sixteenth-century people. Well, that and the sanitation. "What did you want to know?"

 

"Well, how you were planning to end _Richard III_, for one, but this is probably more important.[vi] Have you noticed anything...strange going on lately?"

 

"Is that why you're here?" More was looking suspicious again. "Because something strange is happening?"

 

"Well..." The Doctor held out the word for several seconds. "I guess so, yes. It's what I do. Well, in a way, it's what I do."

 

More nodded. "That sounds about right. But, yes, as it happens, I did notice something strange. It was about three nights ago, when I was leaving Westminster. I saw a dead man walking."

 

The Doctor blinked. "That certainly is strange. How did you know he was dead?"

 

"Cold to the touch, no pulse, eyes glazed over. But he was most certainly walking." Without waiting for the question Martha guessed was inevitable, he added, "I followed him. He went into an alleyway, where he found someone else, and stabbed him," he mimed a stabbing motion, "through the shoulder. There was a flash of blue light, and the next thing I knew, there were two dead men, both walking."

 

"I don't suppose we can have that, can we? Where did this happen?" The Doctor, hands shoved in his pockets, began to pace back and forth. "Do you know?"

 

"Some ten minutes' walk from York Place. Too close to Westminster for comfort." More glanced warily in what Martha supposed was the direction of Westminster. "The King hasn't been told. Not yet, at least. I'd rather not trouble him until we've got something more substantial. After all," he added unconvincingly, "I might have imagined it."

 

The Doctor eyed him. "You don't seem the type to imagine dead men walking. Countries that don't exist, horrible tyrants, Jane Shore--you had her perfectly, by the way--but not zombies."[vii]

 

"That must be what you saw, Doctor," Martha said before More could begin to interrogate the Doctor the way it seemed he really wanted to do. "Whatever it is the second man was stabbed with."

 

"It looked like a dagger, but obviously was nothing of the sort."

 

"But what I can't understand is _why_," the Doctor mused, tangling one hand in his hair. "Why here? Why now? And who, for that matter?"

 

"Well," More said, after a moment's reflection, "I made some enquiries, and I did find out who the dead men were. Nicholas Lund, formerly of the kitchens at Westminster; and George Ratcliffe, one of Wolsey's men."

 

"Wolsey? So he's still around, is he?"

 

"Perhaps not as much as he might like but...Doctor?" The Doctor had begun to stride toward the house, and Martha and More hurried to catch up to him.

 

Just as abruptly, he stopped and turned back to them. "How close _are_ you to him these days?"

 

"Who, Wolsey? You don't honestly believe _he's_ involved? But to what end?" But Martha could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Suddenly she wasn't surprised the Doctor liked him so quickly. "The Lady Anne?"[viii]

 

"Maybe he's desperate."

 

"But, Doctor, this is absurd. Wolsey mixed up in necromancy? Witchcraft? Even he wouldn't go so far. There's too much risk if someone were to catch him." After a moment, he added in an undertone, "All the same..."

 

"All the same?" the Doctor prompted.

 

More sighed, looking desperately unhappy. "He has been acting...oddly. Suspicious of everyone, even His Majesty. Not that anyone could blame him, considering all that's happened, but I still can't believe he'd sink to that.[ix] Wolsey's far too clever."

 

"I'm afraid there's only one way to find out." The Doctor grinned. "I get to meet Cardinal Wolsey!"

 

"Not dressed like that, you won't," a woman's voice put in, prompting all three of them to turn in unison. Framed by one of those gorgeous windows, a lady was studying them with good-humoured curiosity. She looked to be about More's age, with a round, cheerful face, and Martha could only suppose she was his wife.

 

"Alice, how long have you been listening?" Any attempt More might have made at sternness was undercut by a rueful smile.

 

"The Archbishop of York and witchcraft? It's mad enough, I couldn't help myself." Turning to the Doctor, she shook her head disapprovingly. "You call yourself a doctor. You look more like a tinker."

 

"I do not!" he spluttered, as Martha choked back an undignified giggle.

 

"Well, they'll not be letting you into Westminster, I'll guarantee that. As for you, Mistress," Martha's laughter abruptly stalled as those eyes took her in appraisingly, "that won't do at all."

* * *

[i] **Mulberry trees:** Thomas More, among his innumerable talents, loved to grow exotic plants in his garden in what is now Chelsea. Mulberry trees (possibly to feed silkworms) were among them.

[ii] **'Policy':** Fifteenth- and sixteenth-century English are strange.

[iii] **A legend:** If anyone would run across a reference to the Doctor, it would be Thomas More. Seriously.

[iv] **Babylonian Captivity:** Referring to the period between 1309 and 1380 during which there were two separate Papacies, one in Rome and one in Avignon, that became a point of contention during the Reformation. Also, Philip IV used it as one of his many excuses to get rid of the Templars in 1314.

[v] **Raphael:** More's _Utopia_ features an explorer named Raphael Hythloday.

[vi] **_Richard III_:** Thomas More wrote a positively brilliant...we don't actually know _what_ it is, but it's titled _The History of Richard III_, and could be anything from a satire on Henry VII to a Tacitean pastiche about a hunchbacked king of England. Either way, it is marvellous and everyone should read it. Even if it is sadly unfinished, probably to save More from losing his head for something he'd said--oh, wait.

[vii] Referring, in turn, to Utopia, Richard III, and Edward IV's mistress Jane Shore.

[viii] **Lady Anne:** Referring to Lady Anne Boleyn, who eventually became Henry VIII's second wife and the first Queen of England to lose her head for treason.

[ix] **All that's happened:** In 1527, Wolsey tried to call together a rigged court to push through Henry VIII's divorce from Katherine of Aragon. Katherine appealed to the Pope as the highest authority, thus precipitating several years of Epic Legal Fail and eventually the English Reformation.


	2. Pastime With Good Company

It had been years since Martha had worn a long dress, but even that hazy experience couldn't compare to being pulled, prodded, and laced into a garment she was certain was crushing her ribs. No wonder women in costume dramas fainted all the time--they could scarcely breathe, and all that fabric in what felt like the middle of summer; she was impressed they didn't all die of heatstroke on the spot.

 

That being said, she was forced to admit the colour was gorgeous, a deep burgundy with delicate gold details. She looked--literally--like a princess. Tish would have died of shock to see her like this.

 

"You do have the most unusual colouring, Mistress Jones," Alice More remarked as her maid twisted Martha's hair underneath a very uncomfortable headdress. "Do you come from across the ocean, perhaps? One hears all kinds of stories about the people there."

 

"Not...exactly," Martha ventured. "Sort of. It's hard to explain."

 

"Alice, we'll be late!" More's voice echoed from the stairwell.

 

"Patience is a virtue, husband mine," she called back sweetly before giving Martha another long look. "Now, that's lovely. Catch that Doctor's attention for certain."

 

Martha glanced at her, trying not to blush. "Is it that obvious?"

 

"To anyone with daughters, yes," Alice said, steering her toward the stairwell. "A bit bony for my tastes, I must admit, but he's got a nice face, and a decent enough leg."

 

"You could tell under those trousers?" Martha laughed, only to stop short in the middle of the staircase, hoping with all her heart that her mouth hadn't actually dropped open.

 

"I meant to warn you," whispered Alice, "but I thought it might be a nice surprise."

 

"Yeah," she said weakly, "nice."

 

She had known there was a wardrobe on the TARDIS, and that the Doctor was a dandy in his own inexplicable way. But this was not fair. "Martha Jones," he greeted her with an elaborate bow and a grin that nearly split his face, "don't you look fantastic!"

 

"You don't clean up too badly yourself," she retorted, prodding him through the deep green velvet. From the corner of her eye, she caught More shooting a smile at his wife. "I never guessed you'd be the type to wear tights."

 

"When in Rome and all that," the Doctor replied, holding out his arms to study the lace-edged sleeves spilling over his wrists. "I just wish it weren't so hot."

 

***

 

Unfortunately for the Doctor, the interior of Westminster Palace was even hotter, lit by dozens of blazing torches. Martha could feel the sweat snaking down her back, and wondered how she was going to get by in this weather with no drinking water, which immediately led her to wonder if Time Lords could get dehydrated. _Well_, she thought to herself, _all these people had to have survived somehow_.

 

They came to a halt in front of a pair of ornate double doors. More leant close to the man standing beside them and murmured something in his ear. Straightening his gleaming livery, the man--whose face was almost as red as the rose badge pinned to his chest--pushed open the doors and declaimed, "Sir Thomas More, the Doctor, and Mistress Martha Jones."

 

More smiled in response to Martha's unasked question. "Heralds are very difficult to catch off guard, Mistress Jones."

 

Martha had been to Hampton Court on school trips, but, rather like seeing the Globe, it was nearly impossible to reconcile that with what she was seeing now. The room was full to bursting, conversations nearly drowning out the music from the gallery above. And, dear God, it _stank_.

 

Thankfully, the Doctor seemed to notice and slipped a handkerchief into her hand. She realised it had been dampened with something only after she'd pressed it to her nose and, after a whiff of something vaguely alcoholic, realised she could smell nothing at all.

 

"Doctor!" she hissed. "What have you done?"

 

"Never you mind," he muttered. "Tried it out for the first time during the Black Death and I never travel without it. Trust me, you're better off."

 

"Does it wear off, at least?"

 

"Oh, yeah. Few days, nothing serious." He waved one hand vaguely and, quite to his surprise, found himself holding a goblet of wine. "Hmm. It's good to be the king. Or to know the king, I suppose. Bottoms up!"

 

Martha took a sip of the syrupy liquid as the Doctor handed it to her--knowing full well she couldn't taste it properly without being able to smell it--and focused instead on looking round the room, trying her best not to stare. Especially when she realised very quickly that she was the one being stared _at_. Again.

 

And, of course, nobody stared at the Doctor. Because, aside from Alice More, nobody _ever_ stared at the Doctor. Martha couldn't understand it for the life of her.

 

"Thomas!" The single name literally _boomed_ across the room and Martha could see what looked like a massive wave spreading from the far corner of the hall as the crowd swept aside to clear a path. Martha didn't mean to stare, but she couldn't help it.

 

The man now striding toward them was a giant, glittering with gold and jewels. He wasn't wearing a crown, but it occurred to Martha that he didn't actually need one. The entire world revolved around him and he knew it.

 

"Thomas, you old devil!" One massive hand clamped down on More's shoulder and he winced beneath its weight. "You've been hiding from us, haven't you?"

 

"Not at all, Your Majesty." More disentangled himself so quickly that Martha suspected he did it on a regular basis. "I wouldn't dream of it." Lowering his voice, he leant close to the King. "I don't suppose Wolsey's here, is he?"

 

"You'll venture into Westminster to see him and not me." The King studied him with a wry smile. "Of course, I understand he sets the best table in London, so I suppose I can't fault your logic."[i]

 

More shrugged. "I am a hopeless glutton, Your Majesty."

 

"And a terrible liar, Thomas. Also a man with appalling manners. You've not introduced me to your guests." Martha could feel that blue gaze on her now and kept her eyes on the floor. She supposed she ought to curtsey or something, but had no idea how to do it without falling over in this dress.

 

"Martha Jones. Your name does you no justice, my lady." At the sound of her name, she jerked her head upward and found herself looking at Henry the Eighth. "You are welcome to Court."

 

"I...er...thank you, Your Majesty," she said, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks.

 

"Why, Sir Thomas," a woman's voice, low-pitched and resonant, interjected from just beyond the King, "this is an unexpected pleasure." Martha caught sight of a deep red velvet sleeve and a graceful white hand that More raised to his lips. "And you've brought visitors."

 

The Doctor was grinning like a lunatic. "Anne Boleyn. You're Anne Boleyn! I've been hoping to meet you for years!"

 

Anne Boleyn didn't _look_ like the sort of woman who could change an entire country's religion. She couldn't have been much older than Martha, with wide-set dark eyes and a delicate, pointed chin.[ii] But there was something about her, something in the way the King looked at her, that made Martha shiver in spite of the heat. All she knew about Anne Boleyn was that she caused the English Reformation, gave birth to Elizabeth I, and got her head chopped off for her trouble.

 

"I don't believe we've met," Anne was saying with a bemused smile. "I'm sure I would remember you."

 

"I'm the Doctor."

 

"Doctor..."

 

"Just the Doctor. Easier that way. Less confusion."

 

"His real name's Smith," Martha heard herself saying, to her own horror. "But you know how men love to sound mysterious."

 

Anne's laughter seemed to dance in the air and Martha realised her glass was empty. Funny how quickly you could drink when you couldn't taste it.

 

"Well, _Doctor_," Anne linked her arm possessively through the King's, "I wish you all the pleasure the court has to offer. And you, Mistress Jones. A lady of judgement will do very well here."

 

After they'd swept past, Martha leant close to the Doctor. "Did that mean what I thought it meant?"

 

"Oh, Martha Jones," he said, positively gleeful, "you've caught the attention of Henry the Eighth."

 

"But I don't _want--_" she cut herself off mid-hiss. "Is that Wolsey?" Not that she'd have recognised the man for himself, so much as the fact that he was wearing one of those massive red robes. There couldn't be _that_ many Cardinals in one court, right?[iii]

 

"You must be the mysterious Mistress Jones," he said, bending over her hand. "A friend of Sir Thomas?"

 

"Wait..." Martha glanced at the Doctor in bafflement, "how do _you_ know...?"

 

"Oh, you're _good_," the Doctor said. He was practically dancing. "You are _really_ good. I'm impressed. Was it the pageboy with the wine? I bet it was him!"

 

Wolsey looked at him as though a dog had just started talking to him. "I beg your pardon?"

 

"The Doctor," More interjected, his voice perfectly deadpan. Martha had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. "If I may introduce the Archbishop of York."

 

"_Cardinale_," the Doctor made an elaborate bow, rolling his Rs just a second longer than necessary. "Boy have I got questions for you!"

 

"Thomas?" Wolsey looked at More. "Explain?"

 

More was visibly fighting laughter, prompting Martha to stifle her own with her hand. "I think it's just as he said, Your Eminence. He is the Doctor, and he has questions for you."

 

"For a philosopher, Thomas, you ask remarkably few questions."

 

"And you too many for a man of God."

 

"Oh, for goodness' sake, must you bring theology into everything?" As if only then realising he'd said it aloud, he shrugged and sketched a cross in the air. "_Benedicite_, my son."

 

The Doctor didn't both to hide his laughter. "You're brilliant, you. What do you know about dead men walking?"

 

"That if their souls be cleansed by remembrance they may in time sit in glory with our Lord and Saviour, Amen." He kept peering at the Doctor as if trying to read him like a book. "I must confess, Thomas, you have odd friends."

 

"No odder than yours, Your Eminence, if you don't mind my saying so," the Doctor said. "But what is a nasty divorce but the prime time to pick up unexpected friends? Or enemies, for that matter."

 

"You are bold, Sir Doctor, for a newcomer to this court. I would watch my steps if I were you. Thomas, be careful of your company." The crowds opened up as he departed, a surge of whispers in his wake.

 

"I'm going to guess," More said after a moment, "that you were never trained in diplomacy."

 

"You might say that." The Doctor's eyes were suddenly very far away. "My people weren't known for diplomacy. Not in the end." Then, as if shaking water out of his hair, he grinned. "But he's definitely hiding something."

 

"Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?" Martha asked, prompting a look of complete bafflement from More and an eyeroll from the Doctor. "Right. Sorry. But how could you tell he was lying?"

 

"Aside from the fact that he's Cardinal Wolsey?"

 

"Doctor!"

 

More glanced toward the departing figure of the Cardinal. "And, seeing as you've annoyed him, Doctor, how do you propose we confirm this feeling of yours?"

 

"Well, it never occurred to me that he'd tell anyone, if that's what you mean to imply," the Doctor said, looking hurt. "He doesn't strike me as the sort of person who could be lulled into any sense of security, let alone a false one." Now both Martha and More were looking at him. "Oh, come, now! Did you honestly think it would be that easy? Wolsey's as Machiavellian as one could be without being, well, Machiavelli."

 

"Oh, not _him_ again." More sighed. "I'm quite sure not all his advice is meant to be taken seriously."[iv]

 

The Doctor looked at him in a way Martha was beginning to recognise as dangerous. "Be careful, Sir Thomas. Not everyone has your scruples. But," turning back to Martha, he grinned, "I do think we've found the perfect excuse to catch the attention of the one person who can tell Wolsey what to do."

 

"You don't mean..." Martha didn't even look toward the throne. "No. No _way_. I'm not doing that." Lowering her voice, she bent very close to the Doctor. "Have you lost your mind? I'm not going anywhere near bloody Henry the Eighth!"

 

"Oh, I didn't mean _him_." The Doctor gestured to Anne Boleyn, who raised a mocking toast to him from across the room. "_Cherchez la femme_, Martha Jones. Tell any King--but especially this one--that there are dead men running amuck in his kingdom, and he'll overreact. Declare war on France, no doubt. But tell the woman who wants to be Queen and you might get something done."

 

Martha eyed him warily. "How do you know she'll even talk to me?"

 

"She will." Rather to her surprise, it was Sir Thomas who spoke, the furrow between his brows growing deeper as he too looked at Anne. "Any woman who catches the King's eye does so at her peril."

 

"Thanks. That's very helpful," muttered Martha. A glance over her shoulder revealed that Lady Anne was once more watching them.

 

She supposed it was inevitable that, just as they were trying to sneak away--the Doctor was at least two and a half sheets to the wind and going on about the difference between a hunchback and a slight slouch--one of the many pages Martha had seen running about tugged at Sir Thomas' sleeve.

 

"For Mistress Jones, Sir Thomas. The Lady Anne wishes to see her."

 

Both men looked at her, their expressions comically identical. Martha rolled her eyes. "Right. Wish me luck."

 

"You'll be fine." Lowering his voice, the Doctor said, "And if the sixth finger is real, tell me. I never believed it, myself, but I'm sure you'll get close enough to see."

 

The page led her through what seemed like a maze of corridors and staircases before knocking on a beautifully carved wooden door. Silently cursing the Doctor for sending her off on her own with no help whatsoever, she followed the page into a room easily the size of her entire flat. Outside the windows, Martha could just see the Thames in the setting sun, dotted with boats and torches.

 

"Impressive, isn't it?" Anne Boleyn's voice startled her and she caught her breath. "I won't deny we've risen higher than anyone expected."

 

"Um." Martha nodded. "Look, I do want to explain something if that's all right with you..." A bemused smile lit the other woman's face as she nodded. "Right. I'm not interested in the King. Not even a little. Trust me."

 

"It's that Doctor, isn't it?"

 

"Wait, how has _everybody_ figured that out already?"

 

Anne shrugged. "I know a jealous woman when I see one."

 

"Oh. Well, like I said. No need to be jealous of me. He is _completely_ not my type."

 

"Not your type?" Admittedly, the words did sound strange when she said them, as if tasting something completely unfamiliar. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

 

"Well, um." Martha bit her lip. "You know how kings are, right? There are all kinds of stories about how kings behead their wives..."

 

"Behead their wives?" Anne burst out laughing. "How _barbaric_. Not that Henry wouldn't appreciate the excuse to take dear Katherine to the block for stubbornness, but one couldn't possibly do that."

 

Before the restraining power of common sense came back to mind, Martha thought to herself that she could understand why someone might want Anne Boleyn dead. "I think that would depend on the King. But," she took a deep breath, remembering what the Doctor had said, "there is something you probably should know."

 

"Oh?"

 

"This is going to sound crazy, but...we--the Doctor and I--came here because something wasn't right." After a few false starts, she gave up trying to make it sound plausible. "There are zombies in London."

 

Anne was looking at her even more strangely now. "There are _what_?"

 

"Souls escaped from Purgatory, one might say. The living, walking dead." The Doctor skidded to a halt in front of Anne, his grin positively manic. "We've got a problem."

* * *

  


[i] **Best table in London:** Cardinal Wolsey was known for amassing large quantities of money and property through his many different appointed positions. When he fell from favour, Henry VIII took most of it for himself, including the palaces at York Place (later Whitehall) and Hampton Court.

[ii] **Much older than Martha:** Anne's birthday is disputed, with historians unable to decide whether she was born in 1501 or 1507. This fic presupposes 1501 which would make Anne 28 years old to Henry's 38.

[iii] **Cardinals:** Yes. Cardinals turned up everywhere.

[iv] **Machiavelli:** Although it has not been explicitly stated that Thomas More had read Machiavelli's _Il Principe_ (first printed in Italy in 1516), his close friend Desiderius Erasmus had certainly read it and, indeed, it is possible that his treatise _The Education of a Christian Prince_ (1516) was a response to Machiavelli. Although it was not translated into English until 1640, many members of Henry VIII's court, including Thomas Cromwell, read it in the original Italian.


	3. The Black Knight

Martha didn't realise until she'd followed the Doctor halfway down a flight of stairs that Lady Anne was right behind her. "After that entrance, do you honestly think I could stay away?" she asked, the mischievous smile catching Martha by surprise.

 

"I guess not," Martha admitted. "He does know how to make an entrance."

 

"Not a typical doctor, then."

 

"No," said Martha, laughing, "that he definitely isn't."

 

The Doctor was well ahead of them--Martha suspected the lack of heavy, brocade skirts had a lot to do with his relative speed--but he slowed after turning a corner and Martha caught sight of More standing beside a pillar.

 

"I've been keeping my distance, but it looked to be heading this way."

 

"Another zombie?" Martha asked.

 

"I'm not sure," the Doctor said, peering down the dimly-lit corridor. "It was hard to tell under the armour."

 

"They have armour now? That can't be good."

 

"Doctor, look." More pointed and Martha nearly jumped out of her skin at the shadow that had just appeared in a doorway some twenty feet away. More was frowning deeply. "I've never seen a man move quite like that before."

 

The Doctor stared after, squinted, and scrambled for his glasses. "Neither have I, come to think of it."

 

Martha considered suggesting that they move, especially as the suit of armour plodded toward them, its jerky movements bringing to mind something else entirely--something that made her retreat on instinct. "Doctor, you don't think it's those...ghosts? The ones from Canary Wharf?"

 

"Cybermen?" He shook his head. "Not quite, no. But I can see how you might confuse them."

 

She had no intention of admitting how much of a relief that was.

 

The suit of armour came to a halt directly in front of the Doctor. Though they waited for a good few minutes, nothing happened, even as the Doctor waved his arms vaguely in front of where its eyes presumably were.

 

"Grandfather's Folly." At the sound of Anne's voice, Martha glanced at her. In all the excitement, she'd forgotten the other woman was there.

 

"Pardon?" The Doctor was giving her one of his patented Intense Looks, as if the entire world depended on the next words out of her mouth.

 

Not that she seemed to notice. "That's what Henry calls them. It's his grandfather's badge, the _rose-en-soleil_," she said, pointing to what looked like an enamelled flower on the breastplate.[i] "His mother told him all sorts of mad stories about them."

 

"What...sort of stories?"

 

Anne fixed him with a look that made Martha shudder inwardly. "Are you saying they might be true?"

 

"I'd need to know what they were first." The Doctor reached out very slowly as if to lift the visor, but appeared to think better of it. "Sir Thomas, didn't you mention something about stories?"

 

More was staring at the suit of armour as if it would jump at him the moment he looked away. "They were all different. I just never expected the one about men made of metal to turn out to be true."

 

"I need you both--yes, you too, Lady Anne--sworn to secrecy." The Doctor looked from one to the other. "I intend to find out what is causing all this, but I can only do that if nobody knows. _Especially_ not the King."

 

"But surely he ought to know if this concerns the realm," Anne said. "Have you any ideas?"

 

"I can't say for certain. You need to trust me."

 

Her eyes measured him for several moments before she nodded slowly. "Very well, Doctor. I can give you a few days, but no more than that."

 

It was at that moment that the helmet began to turn very slowly, as if looking at each of them in turn. Martha jumped as a tinny voice emerged from beneath the metal visor, "Incompatible."

 

Without another word, it turned and started walking back along the passage, leaving all four staring after it in confusion. The Doctor took several steps after it but the suit of armour continued to walk as if it hadn't even noticed. His eyes narrowed.

 

"That is _definitely_ not meant to be here."

 

"What do you think you're doing, Doctor?" demanded Lady Anne.

 

"Following it, of course."

 

"You don't even know what it is!"

 

A shadow passed over the Doctor's face. "I have an inkling."

 

"We should all go," Martha heard herself saying even as the Doctor shook his head. "She's right, Doctor. We _don't_ know what it is. And even if you think you do, who's to say it might not be dangerous?"

 

"It could have killed all of us right here, but it didn't," the Doctor said. "Incompatible. Whatever it's looking for, it wasn't us."

 

"We're going with you, Doctor." Lady Anne studied him, torchlight flickering across her face. "No doubt he'll lead us to his master in York Place."

 

"Are you so sure it's Wolsey?"

 

"Come now, Doctor, who else could it be?"

 

"The King, perhaps?" They all turned to More as he said this, his voice flat and wearied. "I do agree, however, that there is only one way to find out for certain."

 

And so they struck out from Westminster gates toward the darkened city, Anne and Martha's finery concealed beneath dark cloaks. At least, Martha thought, it wasn't as hot now the sun had set. At More's curious insistence, they had taken horses--Martha, who had never sat on a horse in her life, behind the Doctor--and she couldn't help but wonder how much he knew that he wasn't telling them, especially as the thing they followed made his way further and further along the river, through the increasingly cramped streets.

 

Out of nowhere, it seemed, the massive walls of the Tower of London unfolded themselves against the night sky. The suit of armour plodded through the gates without so much as a word from the guards on duty, though their eyes followed it uneasily.

 

Martha supposed it shouldn't have surprised her one bit that the Doctor dismounted and strolled up to speak to them himself.

 

"Fine weather we're having, what?" The two poleaxes that clanged down in front of him didn't seem to bother him. "Oh, come now. You let _him_ in, didn't you?"

 

Martha, who suddenly found herself in possession of the reins, clung to them for dear life. Beside her, Sir Thomas had gone very pale. "I thought so."

 

"Thought what, Sir Thomas?" Martha kept her voice low, hoping against hope it wouldn't frighten the horse.

 

"There are a great many stories about the Tower of London, Mistress Jones. Not the least of which..." He trailed off as the Doctor returned, looking disappointed.

 

"Not York Place, as you can see, Lady Anne," the Doctor said, eyeing Anne warily. "The Tower is, I believe, the King's responsibility?"

 

"You can't honestly believe..." Anne looked from him to More. "Henry would have told the world the instant he found such things! Sir Thomas, you of all people don't believe he could possibly have kept this sort of secret."[ii]

 

The Doctor tilted his head to one side like a cat. "You've got a point. But it could well be that Wolsey's working _for_ the King. After all, why wouldn't he?"

 

"Because he's failed, Doctor," she spat. "Henry's left him behind in the dirt where he found him."[iii]

 

"Desperate times and desperate measures." The Doctor looked back toward the Tower, looming and silent against the moonlit sky. "Well, this just got far more complicated, didn't it?"

 

"All the same, Doctor," More said quietly, "we shouldn't linger here. Not with Mistress Jones and my lady Anne."

 

At this, the aspiring Queen fixed him with a puzzled look. "Are you so concerned for my safety, Sir Thomas? I would not have guessed."

 

He inclined his head politely. "It is the King to whom I answer, my lady."

 

"Of course." She wheeled the horse about. "Then, by all means, let us return."

 

***

 

The Doctor was still thinking out loud as they returned to Sir Thomas' house in what Martha supposed had eventually become Chelsea. It really was impossible to map what she saw here onto the London she knew so well.

 

"...but how did they get here in the first place? That's what I can't pin down. It almost doesn't matter who's in charge. I just need to know where all this alien rubbish is coming from when we're nowhere near Cardiff."

 

"Cardiff?" echoed More, glancing toward him. "What about Cardiff?"

 

The Doctor waved his hand. "Nothing, really. Just a rift in Time and Space. But that doesn't explain..."

 

Martha stifled a yawn as More unlocked a cabinet just beside one of the windows and pulled out a sheaf of papers. The Doctor had gone very still. "You must promise me, Doctor, that you will reveal this to no one."

 

"Is that...?" The Doctor's eyes were practically glowing with excitement. "You mean you _did_ finish it?"

 

"Not precisely," More said. "I couldn't, Doctor. It was far too risky. And I thought, foolishly, that perhaps the King might never find out."

 

"Find out what, Sir Thomas?" Martha finally spoke up, having disentangled the heavy headdress from her hair and set it on a nearby chest. Between it, the wine, and the unexpected ride across London--not to mention what had to be severe dehydration--her head was aching horribly. She resolved to ask the Doctor about alien aspirin.

 

More turned to her, his face grave. "That his grandfather had made a pact with the Devil and he'd left behind the wherewithal for others to do the same."

 

Several moments of silence followed that while the Doctor and Martha exchanged glances. "Right," the Doctor finally said, drawing out the word for a second or two. "I'm sure it's not as bad as all that. I mean, the Devil's just a construct, really. I could try to explain to you exactly what's going on here, but that would _really_ disrupt the space-time continuum--"

 

"The what?"

 

"Pretend I didn't say that," the Doctor added sheepishly. "That's not the point. The point is that _someone_ is experimenting with alien technology and it shouldn't be terribly difficult to put a stop to it."

 

"Is that what you did before?"

 

"Pardon?"

 

More, the papers still clutched in one hand, was looking intently at the Doctor as if trying once and for all to persuade himself that he wasn't imagining things. "When you were here before, Doctor. That was the story I heard, you see. About a man known only as the Doctor, though every witness who spoke to me claimed it was Merlin in disguise."[iv]

 

There was a part of Martha that longed to applaud More for leaving the Doctor speechless, but instead she cleared her throat. "What kind of pact with the Devil, if you don't mind my asking?" If there was anything the encounter with Shakespeare had taught her, it was that sixteenth-century people could be convinced that just about anything was the Devil, and that aliens were completely willing to go along with it.

 

"An army that can't be defeated."

 

"The walking dead," the Doctor mused, holding out his hand. "Sir Thomas, does anybody else know about this?"

 

More looked down at the papers before handing them to the Doctor with visible reluctance. "I'm afraid someone might. I didn't want to admit I'd been so foolish, but the more I think on it, the more I wonder..." He took a deep breath. "On the night that I first saw the dead men walking, I'd been dining with Wolsey. I've known him for years; I know as well as any other man that he will say outlandish things just to amuse himself at someone else's expense. But I ought to have guessed this was something different..."

 

The Doctor was frowning very deeply at the last page of the sheaf More had handed him. "This isn't an ending. It just...stops."[v]

 

"My notes were stolen, Doctor. That very night." More sank back against the table. "I hadn't touched them in nearly twenty years, had locked them away in that very cabinet and hadn't told a soul about them. But when I returned from York Place, they were missing."

 

"What exactly did you tell Wolsey, Sir Thomas?"

 

"Very little, or so I'd thought. He did most of the talking, to be honest. Something about odd things happening in Wales and stories about Merlin and indestructible armies. I just thought he was poking fun at poor Master Vergil again, but..."[vi]

 

"Um." Martha had lost track of the conversation when she realised that what she'd thought was just a shadow in the garden had in fact come up to the window and revealed itself to be a well-dressed man not too much older than her. "There's...someone outside."

 

More spun to face the window, his hand closing round the dagger sheathed at his waist. Moving very slowly, he reached out and opened the latch in spite of Martha's half-formed warning not to open windows to strange men.

 

"Master Cavendish?"[vii] More sounded decidedly unsure. "Is something the matter? You look..."

 

"He's one of them," the Doctor said, having made his way to More's side. "Which, considering who he is, seems to suggest that this thing, whatever it may be, doesn't actually _kill_ people. It just...stuns them, I suppose. Makes the body think it's dead. Empty. A vessel for whoever's in control."

 

More's expression spoke volumes. Martha, without waiting for either man to do the obvious, dragged herself up from the cushioned bench where she'd been trying desperately not to fall asleep, crossed the room, and pressed her fingers to the man's icy-cold throat. "No pulse," she finally said, after several moments spent telling herself she just had to accept inexplicable things. "If he isn't dead, he's doing a very good job pretending."

 

"My master bids ye come unto his presence at York Place."

 

Martha couldn't suppress a shudder at the voice. More and the Doctor were exchanging looks again. "Well, I guess that answers the question of who's in charge of the zombies."

 

The Doctor nodded. "His waxen wings did mount above his reach, and melting heavens conspired his overthrow."

 

"Icarus?" More frowned. "Wolsey isn't nearly innocent enough for that."

 

"Faustus.[viii] You were the one who said it was the Devil." He sighed. "Seems the Cardinal did it." In one of the moodswings Martha was slowly becoming accustomed to, he turned back to her and grinned widely. "_Allons-y_!"

 

* * *

[i] **_Rose-en-soleil_:** The badge of Henry VIII's grandfather, Edward IV. For further details, see _[The Winter of Our Discontent](http://archiveofourown.org/works/393520)_.

[ii] **Secret:** Henry VIII? Not very good at keeping secrets. One need only look at his marital troubles.

[iii] **Failed:** Referring specifically to the truncated legatine trial at Blackfriars in June 1529, where Katherine of Aragon refused to countenance an annulment of her marriage and appealed to Rome. Wolsey was therefore unable to keep his promise of a speedy result and Henry became displeased with him very quickly thereafter.

[iv] **Merlin:** Well, really, if you were a fifteenth-century person who ran into the Doctor, wouldn't _you_ automatically assume he was Merlin?

[v] **Stops:** The extant English text of More's _History of King Richard III_ is unfinished. When it turns up in sixteenth-century chronicles, it is interpolated into an English translation of Polydore Vergil's _Anglica Historia_. Nobody is entirely sure why More didn't finish it, and evidence of alien robots sounds like as good an explanation as any.

[vi] **Vergil:** Referring to Polydore Vergil, who wrote the first full-length history of England from its supposed founding by Brutus of Troy to the end of Henry VII's reign in 1509 (later extended to cover the reign of Henry VIII until 1537, but not until he was safely dead). He is generally sceptical of all things Arthurian. He also hated Wolsey with a passion, and Wolsey repaid him by throwing him briefly in prison.

[vii] **Cavendish:** George Cavendish was a gentleman usher of Wolsey's who retired from court after Wolsey's death and eventually wrote a prose biography of his former employer. He also wrote a collection of verse tragedies titled _Metrical Visions_, where ghosts narrate their stories in first person. It is the assertion of this fic that having spent some undetermined amount of time as a zombie had something to do with that.

[viii] **Faustus:** Christopher Marlowe's _Doctor Faustus_, in fact, _Prologue_.21-2.

 


	4. Fortuna è una donna

Martha had thought the King was joking about Wolsey's expensive tastes, but the moment they stepped through the doors of York Place, she realised it was all true. Leaning close to the Doctor, she murmured, "I guess it does pay to join the Church."

 

"Only sometimes," the Doctor said. "But when it does, _boy_ does it pay well! I had dinner with Rodrigo Borgia once..."

 

"And?"

 

He grinned. "What happens in the Palazzo Borgia stays in the Palazzo Borgia, I'm afraid."[i]

 

They were shown into a massive, book-lined room. Wolsey was seated near one of the windows, apparently absorbed in writing a letter. "Ah." His smile was surprisingly friendly when he looked up at them. "Doctor. Thomas. Mistress Jones. I'm so glad you came."

 

"Master Cavendish didn't necessarily give us a choice," said More, his expression as forbidding as Wolsey's was not. "What are you about, Wolsey?"

 

"I knew you wouldn't understand, Thomas." A shadow passed over Wolsey's face. "I haven't the luxury of your principles."

 

"Principles, Wolsey, are no luxury--"

 

"They are when you're in my position," the Cardinal interjected, rising to his feet. "Thomas, I have no other choice."

 

"But to do _what_?" More burst out. "What is going on, Wolsey? Why are dead men walking in the streets of London? And what in God's name are those black knights from the Tower?"

 

"You know what they are, Thomas."

 

"But those aren't _real_," More insisted. "They can't possibly be real."

 

"Thomas, with all due respect, if one follows that logic, the Doctor can't be real either."

 

Both men now looked at the Doctor, who held up his hands apologetically. "I'm afraid I can't help you there. And this really can't go on. You, Your Eminence, are interfering with technologies you can't possibly understand."

 

"Then explain them to me, Doctor. Help me keep this realm from falling prey to damnation itself." Martha had to acknowledge that Wolsey had a brilliant sense of timing; he paused just long enough for both the Doctor and Sir Thomas to stare blankly at him before taking a breath and, meeting her eyes briefly, continuing, "You know of the Lutheran menace, Thomas. You are hardly blind to that heresy."

 

"You can't possibly believe--"

 

"The Lady Anne is sympathetic to their cause."

 

"But what exactly are you _doing_?" the Doctor said, eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "What do zombies and armoured robots have to do with Lutherans? Unless there's something I'm missing, and that doesn't generally happen."

 

Wolsey looked down at the paper he'd been scribbling on in writing that made some of Martha's fellow medical students' look legible and, after a moment's hesitation, back at the Doctor. "Doctor, if you were given the chance to give two of the most powerful men in the world precisely what they wanted without any bloodshed, wouldn't you do it?"

 

The Doctor, if anything, looked even more suspicious. "What do you mean?"

 

"His Majesty wants a divorce. The Pope wishes to stamp out the Lutheran heresy once and for all. Thomas," he added, his eyes moving to More, "you cannot tell me you disagree."

 

"With the former, most assuredly," More retorted. "There is no question whatsoever in my mind that Her Majesty is the King's lawful wife--"

 

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Thomas, but His Majesty will be marrying the Lady Anne, regardless of your opinion or mine. The question is _how_ he will do so."

 

"The Pope would never--"

 

"He would, if I offered him the most powerful army in the world."

 

"Oh, _no_." The expression on the Doctor's face was so abjectly disappointed that Martha nearly winced, herself. "Always armies with you lot, isn't it? Always looking for the upper hand, always ready to stamp out someone else just because they don't agree with you! Haven't you ever _listened_ to yourselves?"

 

"Oh, I listen, Doctor." Wolsey fixed him with a steady stare. "I listen well enough and often enough to know that there are good reasons why the saints--God keep them--do not live very long. We are imperfect beings and it is our lot to strive forever and fail on every attempt."

 

Is that your excuse?"

 

"It's the truth. Take it or leave it. And if offering this army to the Pope will end this Great Matter once and for all, it is a chance I am willing to take."

 

"You may be," said the Doctor quietly, "but I'm not."

 

There really didn't seem any good response to that, but Martha forced herself to step forward all the same. "I'm going to guess the King has no idea what you're doing. But Lady Anne knows."

 

Wolsey frowned at her for a second before exchanging glances with More. "Mistress Jones, I cannot even think why you're here, let alone what you mean."

 

"Because I'm a woman?" she demanded, hands on hips. "Oh, you've got _no_ idea--"

 

"Martha," the Doctor warned, "space-time continuum."

 

"Oh, _fine_." Martha sighed. "But that doesn't change the fact that she knows something is going on and if you make us disappear or whatever it is you clearly want to do, she'll tell the King everything."

 

"You can't do this, Your Eminence," the Doctor said, an awful sort of compassion in his face. "I know you want to--I understand it better than anyone--and I know _why_ you want to, but the consequences are too horrible to contemplate. Can you imagine what would happen if, of all the men in the world, _King Henry the Eighth_ got himself an army that couldn't be defeated?[ii] You've known him as long as he's been King, Your Eminence. Even you have to know this is an awful idea."

 

"And what would you have me do instead, Doctor?"

 

The Doctor did not look away from him. "I am so sorry, Your Eminence."

 

"So am I, Doctor. However, I fear you're too late. The messenger left before you arrived."

 

Whatever the Doctor might have said to that was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. A footman stood in the doorway, looking intensely nervous. "Your Eminence..."

 

"Can't you see I'm busy?" snapped Wolsey.

 

"There's someone here to see you--"

 

"No need for that," the now-familiar woman's voice interjected from the shadows behind him as Anne Boleyn stepped into the room and drew back her hood, her smile positively predatory. In her hands was a letter bearing a broken wax seal. "I believe this belongs to you, Your Eminence?"

 

To Wolsey's credit, he did not flinch, though his face grew very pale and his hand clenched around the back of the chair. "My lady Anne."

 

"Indeed."

 

"You do understand that that letter would have given the King his divorce and you the crown of England?" He was looking at her the way someone might look at a snake. "You are acting against your own interests, my lady."

 

"Not at all, Your Eminence. An you give His Majesty his divorce, how am I to trust that you shall not pour your poison in his ears as you have done before?" Her dark eyes narrowed. "Nay, my lord. Like Lucifer, you shall fall."

 

"His was not the only fall, my lady. You would do well to remember that when you think to take that which is forbidden to you."

 

Her laughter seemed to ring in the air. "I somehow doubt the Princess Dowager would appreciate your attempt to champion her cause, Your Eminence. She hates you as I do. Indeed, it would seem to me that your enemies vastly outnumber your friends."

 

Wolsey's smile at that made Martha shudder. "I think you shall learn the same to your cost, Lady Anne."

 

The Doctor was looking between them, a frown pinched between his brows. "Right. Claws in, both of you. I've got work of my own to do here and it involves confiscating this." Reaching past Wolsey with one swooping motion, he snatched up an object Martha had originally thought was a letter opener, though a closer look revealed a suspiciously glowing stone at the centre of the hilt. With one zap from the sonic screwdriver, it went dark.

 

"Doctor, what have you done?" Wolsey froze, half-reaching for the device, as, in the corner, Master Cavendish slumped to the floor. Martha ran to his side and, rather to her relief, found his pulse more or less normal.[iii]

 

He opened his eyes and stared blearily at her. "Am I dead?"

 

"Oddly enough, no," was Martha's reply before turning back to the Doctor. "Is that all? No more zombies?"

 

"Should do," the Doctor said, grinning. "Sir Thomas, I should think you can take it from here."

 

More had been watching the exchange between Lady Anne and Wolsey with increasing alarm and looked at the Doctor for several moments before finally speaking. "Take what _where_?"

 

"Figure of speech. Never mind. What I meant is that Martha and I can be on our way, if you don't mind. All of you," he added, eyeing Lady Anne warily. "It's better this way. I promise. Well, maybe not for all of you, but--"

 

Martha had reached out to put her hand over his mouth. "Space-time continuum."

 

"Do you ever plan to explain exactly what that is?" More wondered aloud.

 

"It would take far too long," the Doctor said, having disentangled himself from Martha with a rueful smile. "But, trust me. None of you actually _wants_ Henry the Eighth to have an invincible army of dead people. Or the Pope. Or the King of France. Or _anybody_. Just think about it."

 

Anne shrugged, looking admittedly sheepish. Beside her, More gave an expressive grimace. "I think that's enough far-fetched fancy for one night."

 

It was only after they stepped out of the gates of York Place that Martha heaved a sigh of relief, at least until she remembered the shadow in the halls of Westminster Palace. "But what about the black knights?"

 

"There are only two left." More kept his eyes determinedly focused on the road before them. "Not enough, I think, to cause any harm."

 

"I might disable their mechanisms all the same," the Doctor mused. "Better to be safe, in case anyone gets any ideas." That last with a hairy eyeball in Anne's direction.

 

She shrugged gracefully. "I don't know what you mean."

 

"Don't you give me that. I know you too well, Anne Boleyn." With a wink at Martha and an irrepressible grin, he added, "You'd best watch your head."

 

Martha swatted him on the shoulder. "And don't try to tell me you don't deserve it because you do."

 

More just shook his head. "A man in a blue box who speaks only in riddles. Pity Master Vergil returned to Italy, else I could collect on my wager."[iv]

 

"You _wagered_ on me?" The Doctor wagged one finger at him. "That's not appropriate behaviour for a man of principles."

 

"I don't see how it isn't," More replied with an unexpected smile. "I'm only human, Doctor."

 

The Doctor fixed him with a long look. "That you are, Thomas More."

 

Lady Anne left them at the gates of Westminster, the Doctor warning her at least three separate times that she was not to breathe a word to the King. She had straightened, eyeing him coldly. "I keep my word, Doctor. For good or ill."

 

"Can't argue with that," the Doctor murmured as they watched her disappear into the courtyard. "Now, Martha Jones, had enough?"

 

"Of what? The sixteenth century or you?"

 

"Either. Both. Whatever you like!"

 

"Neither, but I don't trust you here," said Martha, mentally adding that she was decidedly sick of sixteenth-century fashion. "You might give away something important."

 

"So you do know the future, then, Doctor," More spoke up, visibly uncomfortable. "That was what I had heard."

 

"Speaking of what you heard, did you ever find your notes?" He gestured back over his shoulder at the receding city. "You never did tell me how you planned to end the _History of Richard III_."

 

"The only way it could possibly have ended, Doctor. The late king hacked to death in battle in Leicestershire." But he did not meet the Doctor's eyes. "There are some things, perhaps, that are best lost to time."

 

The Doctor's smile at that moment made Martha's heart lurch a little. "You've got far too much common sense to be Henry VIII's conscience."

 

"Someone must." More finally looked at him, lip caught between his teeth. "I have the feeling it does not bode well for me. Kings rarely think well of their consciences, in the end."

 

"Not how it works."

 

***

 

When they returned to the TARDIS, the Doctor drew a sheaf of yellowed pages out of his overcoat, prompting Martha's jaw to drop.

 

"You had them all along!"

 

"Not exactly," the Doctor demurred. "I grabbed them from Wolsey's desk as we were leaving. Couldn't help myself; I have to know how it all ends."

 

But Martha reached out and took them from him. "Do you really? I thought you liked surprises."

 

He hesitated, head tilted slightly to one side. "Good point. Seems to me I've got a trip to the fifteenth century in my future and it certainly wouldn't do to spoil it." He turned several gears and peered at the screen. "Where to next?"

 

Martha leant back against the control panel with a grin. "Someplace with running water, please. That's all I ask."

 

"As you wish, Martha Jones."

 

_Finis_.

 

* * *

[i] **Palazzo Borgia:** This is probably better for everyone involved.

[ii] **An army:** Henry VIII invaded France no less than three separate times and he started his own religion when the Pope wouldn't let him have his way. What do _you_ think would have happened?

[iii] **Cavendish:** It is the assertion of this fic that Cavendish conveniently left this bit out of his _Thomas Wolsey late Cardinall, his lyffe and deathe_. Possibly because he decided to repress his inadvertent stint as a member of the undead.

[iv] **Wager:** Because Thomas More would totally wager with Polydore Vergil on the existence of the Doctor. I must admit I am sort of picturing some form of anachronistic poker league with More, Vergil, and Erasmus, where More has an awesome poker face, Vergil is the guy who won't shut up, and Erasmus gets annoyed every time anybody bluffs.


End file.
